Reclamation
by O'MalleytheAlleyCat
Summary: Dean said yes to Michael and Sam had to live with the consequences. Five years later and the apocalypse still happened, Sam leads a camp of survivors and tries to make the best of it, until one day his brother comes back. One-shot.


Reverse verse of a sort. I just always thought it was unfair how Sam saying yes ends the world but Dean saying yes is somehow the better option. Both Michael and Lucifer want to tear the world up getting revenge so it doesn't make sense. There are quite a few fics where Sam comes limping back to Dean after saying yes, I thought it would be interesting to see Dean come limping back.

Thanks to Mango Marbles for looking it over and helping me make some scenes.

* * *

Sam didn't know what to think when Castiel gave him the news. The rebellious angel goes back and forth, Sam tries to keep his hope in the angel and their rag tag group alive of survivors, but sometimes his efforts only got them so far. So when Cas told him that Michael has left his brother's body he thought that maybe the hope he had to give to others was finally coming back to help him.

"You mean it, Cas? Dean's alive?"

The angel nodded wearily. Today was one of the better days. One of the days where Cas wasn't drinking liquor stores or hiding in the desolate and empty plains of the Gobi desert.

"Your brother is alive."

Once upon a time, Castiel had liked Dean better than Sam. He probably still did. Now, Cas had no faith and hung around Sam because he was the only thing he knew, the angels hated him and the world was still a foreign place.

"Can you-" Sam broke off because his emotions were everywhere. He cleared his throat before trying again. "Can you get him?"

Cas sent him a deprecating look. Nowadays the question wasn't about the actually ability of Cas to do something, but his willingness.

"I can."

The answer meant nothing, and Sam let out a stuttering breath. Tomorrow he needed to make a supply run for their small camp of survivors. Sam was gaunt now. Thin rather than built up. He still had muscle, but just enough to survive. That's about what everybody had.

"Please, Cas." He hardly ever begged Cas for anything. Most of the time it was a plea to stay safe, to not run into a situation that he knew he wouldn't make it out of. Cas was rather flippant about everything these days, especially living. But Sam had spent too many nights comforting the angel with kind words and gentle hands that Cas shrugged his shoulders and disappeared.

Sam stood there for several moments, before a knock at the cabin door made him pull back from his despair and fear. The door opened and Ellen stepped through the threshold. When Michael had killed Lucifer an incredible amount of natural disasters had struck everywhere. No one knew how many people had been killed but an estimated 5.8 billion people were dead, according to the information that some no-name group broadcasted (without the usual structure of the world and the experts trying to get estimations, accuracy became a luxury). Every bad thing imaginable had happened: hurricanes, tornadoes, sicknesses ran rampant and without remorse, earth quakes. The list was extensive. After the archangel's-Lucifer's-death though, Michael had done something. Sam imagined that he'd opened Heaven's gates.

Angels had come down, torn from their home and left with power and righteous fury. Along the way, souls had apparently slipped out and regained their bodies. Ellen was one of them, but Jo wasn' woman didn't forgive herself for that.

"Ellen?" Sam said, turning towards her, hands falling from where they had been pulling at his hair.

"It's Bobby, Sam."

Sam frowned. Illnesses were always supernatural. People didn't get the common cold anymore, or things like MRSA. Instead, they got things like the Pharaoh's plague. There were cures, ones which Sam had to ask Castiel for, but sometimes the angel wasn't cooperative.

"Did you get any from him?"

Sam shook his head. Today Cas hadn't felt like talking about their supply of holy oil.

"Goddamn angel," Ellen muttered out angrily.

"We can't push him, he's fighting elsewhere. He managed to have contact with an angel without hostilities."

Sam always fought for everyone, believing that everyone deserved the benefit of the doubt. He didn't talk about it, and people called him a pushover, but he assumed that it stemmed from the fact that he'd made the worst mistakes possible and still received a second chance. Sam couldn't afford to be ruthless and emotionless, he could make the hard decisions, but he did so with compassion and empathy.

Ellen scoffed. "Sure he is."

She didn't argue further, but instead looked at Sam more thoroughly.

"You okay?"

Ever since Ellen had discovered that Jo hadn't slipped out of Heaven, she'd lost most of her maternal habits, but the ones that remained were reserved for Sam in quiet moments.

"Cas said that Dean's alive."

Ellen's face was shocked. "After-? What do you mean?"

Sam was facing away from Ellen again, shoulders slumped with tension and exhaustion.

"Cas said that he felt his presence. Well, felt it outside of Michael. It seems Michael finally returned to heaven."

Michael had stayed on earth for the last five years, leaving every place he passed riddled with natural disasters. The camp Sam kept was protected by ridiculously strong wards against angels. Castiel had given them everything he knew, and Sam had caught an angel once to torture information from it. Angels only bothered them now if they had to go out and collect supplies.

"And Michael's gone for good?" Ellen asked.

Sam understood. The natural disasters never hit them too badly, but the other disasters that did hit them were things to fear. There was no warding to keep a human back. If Michael was gone, that would mean an end to raids by other people. Those always took the most from them all.

"I don't know, I guess we'll see."

"It doesn't mean anything, Sam. Castiel just says stuff. If he's feeling bad, you know he'll say something to make you feel bad, too."

Sam shook his head. This wasn't the same. Cas wouldn't do that, not when it came to Dean. Besides, Cas was only so caustic to the others because he'd lost hope. The angel truly cared, why else would he bring the things they needed desperately, sometimes without Sam even telling him about them?

"How long do you think Bobby'll hang on?"

Sam wanted to get away from the subject of Castiel. He had to fight enough with everyone in the camp on the issue of the angel. Angels were the cause of their current apocalypse lead life, no one was big on trusting any angel, even Cas.

"He's got a couple days at most. This is his second illness this month, I think even if he pulls through this one..."

Ellen didn't finish the sentence, the implied 'he's going to die' being heard anyway.

"He'll make it, Ellen."

Sam was lying but he sounded sure and confident. Ellen was one of the few people who could see through his bullshit, but she still trusted him even when she could hear the complete, hidden despair through his facade of self-assurance.

"I'll come check on him and call a meeting. I just need a few minutes."

Ellen nodded and silently left.

Sam looked around his personal room/meeting room/storage for the supernatural materials. Sinking onto his own cot, which measured a maximum of six feet, Sam let his hands cradle his head. He hadn't seen Dean since his brother had driven away from the motel room after the whole thing with the false prophet girl. Despair had ripped through him and his heart had been crushed. Dean had given up on the world, on fighting, but most especially on Sam; on his little brother's ability to be redeemed.

Sam blinked back tears. Dean may have given up, but Sam would never do that. He couldn't because that meant giving up on being forgiven his sins. If Dean was alive, Sam would fight tooth and nail to help his brother see hope again, even if he had none left for himself.

Sam took a deep breath and forced back his bone deep exhaustion. Things needed to be done, supplies needed to be gotten. Martha, a young woman who had joined them in the beginning, was expecting. Sam had gotten to officiate the marriage of her and her husband, Alonso. He'd died four months into Martha's pregnancy, killed by an angel on one of their supply runs. Sam hadn't been able to do anything.

Then, there was Bobby; however, the only person who could help with that was Cas. They were completely out of holy oil, the only cure to an illness Castiel called 'the Sickness of Job'. It made the body shrivel up. Atrophy, so to speak.

Sam had to be strong. He had to stand tall for everyone in their camp of 56 people. They believed in him, and believed that he would keep them safe. So standing up straight, Sam smoothed his face over and stepped out of the cabin.

* * *

The run went well enough. They didn't meet any angels, and they managed to get a hold of a few very needed materials, toilet paper being one of them. Chuck worked with Sam, having had the vision of Dean saying 'yes'. What had caused him to come running to Sam were the visions of Michael burning San Francisco for it being steeped in sin; the modern Sodom and Gomorrah. That was just the first place to be burned off of the map as Michael had tracked down his brother.

Sam had checked in on Bobby. The older man was skin and bones. Sam smiled, sat down by the cot, and placed his hand in Bobby's. The older man looked ancient now, and he shifted a finger.

"Hey, Bobby, Dean might be coming back."

Bobby's sunken face didn't change, his soft, breathy exhales and inhales the only sound in the room. The hand that was in Sam's twitched and Sam's smile broadened.

"You'll get better and then we can have a real home coming for Dean."

His hopeful tone was met by the continued exhales and inhales, but no movement. Sam's smile faltered and he gently tucked Bobby's hand back under the blanket.

Getting up, Sam headed out, receiving a small sympathetic smile from Natalie, who had been a nurse before the apocalypse. Sam headed for where they kept the logs for winter. The chill was starting to creep in as the days wore on, and Sam wanted to bring some in ahead of time for the infirmary. He was lifting up a log when he heard the shuddering sound of wings.

"Hello, Sam."

Sam turned around and saw Cas standing there, Dean draped over his shoulders; one hand holding his brother up, the other holding a small pot of what Sam knew to be holy oil. Sam felt his whole world stop for a moment and the log dropped uselessly to the ground. He mouthed his brother's name, staring in shock.

"I found your brother; however, he is in poor condition. Michael's occupation of his body is telling."

Sam nodded, rushing forward to take his brother's other arm. Dean was thin, so unbearably thin. There was a thick inch of stubble on his face, helping to mask the sallow and sunken cheeks. As soon as Sam had taken some of the weight, he felt how diminutive his brother was now. He could also feel heat exuding from his skin.

"Help me get him to my room."

Cas sent him a confused look.

"Would not the infirmary be more appropriate?"

Sam shook his head. He didn't want anyone seeing his brother and dealing with him. If any had seen Michael on his warpath, they might have some unpleasant thoughts about his brother. For now, he wanted to think up a reason for Dean's presence and figure out what he wanted to tell people. Also, he just wanted to have his brother to himself after so long of being apart.

They brought Dean to Sam's quarters without anyone seeing them. They settled him on the bed, and Sam got a better look at his brother. Dean really did look awful. He was unconscious, and was easy to lay down on the bed, which barely fit his frame. Sam let a tentative smile show on his face.

"Cas, I can't-how can I-" Sam fell short, trying to express the immense gratitude he felt.

Castiel, who usually was apathetic, looked genuinely pleased.

"I am glad to help you, Sam."

Sam looked down at his brother.

"Could you-"

"I will retrieve the things necessary to helping your brother recover."

In a blink, Cas was gone. Sam adjusted his brother on the bed, trying to make him as comfortable as possible. Sam placed a hand on Dean's forehead, feeling the heat coming from it. A groan issued from Dean and his eyes opened just a bit, they widened though when they took in Sam and then Dean was scrambling backwards, thin limbs jerking away from Sam.

"No!" It was hoarse and Sam was trying to lean in, guide his brother away from the edge of the wall and keep him from hurting himself further.

"Dean, it's okay. It's me, Sam."

Sam's calm words seemed to upset Dean even more, rather than put him at ease. Dean sat up, curled into the corner of the wall on the bed, glaring at Sam with a look of hate.

He spat on Sam. "Devil!"

Sam was shocked, but he kept himself calm. Dean kept trying to melt into the wall, so pressed up against it that Sam could tell it was hurting him.

"I'm not the Devil, Dean. I'm just Sam." He held his hands up, and looked imploringly at Dean.

Dean seemed to calm down, relaxing slightly, though watching Sam with suspicion. Sam smiled encouragingly. When Dean didn't tense, Sam started to move closer. He paused, but Dean didn't flinch and he kept going forward until he was right next to Dean, kneeling on the cot where Dean was curled into a ball. Sam extended a hand out, he gently placed it on Dean's shoulder which was extremely tense.

Sam smiled. Dean jack knifed forward, hands clawing at Sam's face. Sam wasn't expecting it and he fell back, head slamming against a corner of the table which was pushed next to the cot. Sam's vision blacked out for a moment, but he was jerked back into reality as the thin body of his brother rammed into him again. He raised his arms defensively and blinked back the spots in his vision. The knife he kept to the side of his cot was in Dean's hand and coming down on him.

Sam caught his brother's wrist, and then proceeded to flip his brother onto his back. It was painfully easy, the wasted body taking barely any effort to pin to the floor. Dean was struggling like an animal, panting and heaving as he tried to escape Sam's gentle but firm grasp. Sam looked into Dean's eyes and felt his heart stutter and threaten to stop. The green eyes were wild and absent.

* * *

Ellen's eyes widened as she took in the sight of Sam. He had long scratches running down his face and the beginning of a cut on his head, which Ellen could tell extended past his hairline.

"What happened to you?"

Sam's mouth tightened, but he didn't say anything.

"Bobby?"

Ellen's mouth got it's turn to quibble. She stared off to the side and gave a tiny shake of her head. Sam clenched his jaw and turned his mind to their lowering supply of medicine for the upcoming flu season.

* * *

"Come on, Dean, you need to eat."

Dean had been refusing food and refusing water and refusing to do anything except stay bunched up in a ball, spitting and hissing. The only word he ever used was 'devil' and it was always in reference to Sam.

Sam set the bowl down on the table he fell on, it still had a bit of blood on it from when Dean tackled him. Sam had been losing time in running the camp, he hadn't gotten medical supplies and worse was that Bobby's funeral was today and he was supposed to head the half hour service that the camp holds for any individual who dies.

If there was one thing that Sam learned in the last few years, it was patience. He held up the spoon and brought it to Dean, who growled and spit right in Sam's eye. He kept bringing the spoon forward and Dean slapped it out of the way, fingers curled and trying to claw.

Sam couldn't help but wonder if Dean would ever come back, wondered how far his brother crawled inside of himself when Michael took over his body. Sam didn't care if Dean crawled into depths that no person had ever come out of, because Sam would follow him and bring him back or stay there with him.

He took the bowl this time and set it on the cot near Dean. Dean wouldn't touch it for nearly an hour; then, hesitantly, a hand reached out and took the bowl of soup, slurping it all down in seconds. The bowl was thrown with alarming accuracy at his head, but all the food was gone and Sam felt like he had taken a step into pulling his brother out of the depths he was lost in.

At Bobby's funeral, he watched the body be lowered into the ground, covered in some stained sheets. They lit the fire and watched and smelled his body burn. When the flames began to die, the first flakes of snow came coursing down with the swift, hard wind. Sam stayed outside the next two hours, filling in the grave by himself.

* * *

It had been several months, and the cold was finally starting to leave. The small vestiges of snow melted into the ground and left behind green sprigs. Dean had finally started to warm up, in a way. He ate and followed Sam, but he shied away from Sam's touch and interactions, a sort of disgust toward Sam holding him back. Castiel visited one time, attitude cold and distant when around Dean. He blamed him for the world's condition. Castiel hadn't visited since then, and ten more people died from illness. So far, no one had recognized Dean as Michael, probably because no one who had met the arch angel had lived. Ellen pretended like he wasn't there.

Dean gained weight, too. He looked less like a skeleton and more like, well, more like a human.

Dean watched Sam work on the one working car they had, a jeep from 2001. He knew Dean would fix it better than him, but in the entire camp, Sam was the only one with real car knowledge and the jeep was vital to the survival of the camp. Sam wasn't paying attention, too busy thinking about the recent flu that had run through camp and was threatening the lives of some of the smaller children, he picked up the wrong tool and began to try to use it.

"Breaker bar."

Sam's head snapped up and he looked at Dean wide eyed. Dean hadn't said anything other than 'devil'. Dean's eyes were focused on the tool in Sam's hand and then Sam looked at it. He had a pliers in his hand. Frowning, Sam realized that the tool he was supposed to be working with was a breaker bar, Dean had been watching and noticed. A grin broke out on his face despite himself. He set the pliers back on the ground and picked up a breaker bar. Dean didn't say anything more, but Sam felt lighter as he finished servicing the jeep.

* * *

A week later, a group of rag tag people showed up at the camp, they were hungry and needy, but there were men and women and children, and after the devastating losses of the winter and the flu, Sam could only welcome them along with the rest of the camp. Ellen took to a little girl with blonde hair and bright brown eyes that blared defiance despite her starved body and worn clothes. Ellen smiled for the first time since coming back from the dead. Dean started talking to her, words flowing out in gentle tones which Sam hadn't heard for years.

It hurt to think that Dean's first real words and sentences weren't for Sam, but watching his brother sitting cross legged next to a mud puddle explaining quite seriously the nuances in mud pie making, Sam could only feel grateful that Dean's opening up in general. The little girl, her name being Jacqueline but always known as Jack, was just as serious about the mud pies as Dean.

"The rock size is the most important," Dean said quietly.

Jack nodded seriously and held up rocks one by one for Dean to inspect. His brother gave a solemn nod if it was good, or a tiny shake of his head. They made a baker's dozen of mud pies and then stacked them to the side. Jack began asking about cake and Dean got this look on his face. He then carefully explained why pie was so much better than cake. By the end Jack was nodding, star eyed and believing every word coming from Dean's mouth.

Sam felt like he was seeing himself there, in that moment, back when Dean was explaining to him the reasons why Faster Pussycat was a rock band and what made their music good. Ellen called Jack away and Dean got up from the mud, going back over to Sam. He didn't talk to Sam, but he wasn't spitting anymore. Sam counted that as one more step from the depths.

* * *

Sometimes Sam would just talk, he'd start talking to Dean about what he was doing, especially if they were out back in the small fields that the camp kept. He'd talk about the corn as it grew and how it grew. He stopped after a little bit, looking with interest at his brother to see if his brother was listening. He could never tell, but he would then talk about that one time when he tried hot sauce on a sandwich, thinking that it was some kind of sweetener. Sam looked over at Dean and smiled as he thought about it.

"We were in California," He started, one hand splaying out to feel the sunshine, as if he could catch it, "sunny and pretty just like right now, but all the time."

Sam glanced at Dean who was just sitting on the ground, the hoe Sam had given him laying across his lap.

"It was a farming town and they had a lot of immigrants, so a lot of cheap housing and a lot of fodder for angry ghosts. Our landlady, Susie Huaracha brought over her home made hot sauce. I thought it was some type of sweet syrup stuff because it was thick and dark."

Sam chuckled as he remembered ahead of time how the story had ended.

"I came screaming into the room, my face bright red, you were only ten and you thought I was dying." He gave another chuckle.

"I thought I was dying."

Sam set back to his work spading the ground, body soaking in the sun and mind relishing the memory. For just a few moments, as he caught his brother's form out of the corner of his eye, he felt like everything was normal and they are out digging a grave.

"Anyway," he continued, "it took a whole half hour for me to calm down, I thought that our landlady had tried poisoning me. When I showed you what had caused it all, you laughed, fell on your ass and laughed and laughed. God did you laugh. I got so mad until I saw you just keep laughing and for some reason I ended up laughing with you."

Sam smiled again, looking over at Dean. His brother was watching him carefully and for a moment Sam swears he saw those green eyes twinkle with amusement.

* * *

One of the men from the new group of survivors kept sending Dean strange looks and Sam couldn't help the queasy feeling that grew in his stomach. He kept Dean as close to him as his older brother would let him. Dean didn't seem to notice and kept avoiding Sam. It aggravated Sam to no end. Every time Dean disappeared, he felt his heart trying to pound it's way out of his chest, and he couldn't breathe until his eyes set on his brother doing whatever he was doing, either making mud pies with Jacqueline or tinkering on the Jeep.

Then one day, with his heart pounding, he found Dean cornered by the fields, seven of the newcomers were there, five men and two women. He could tell from their stances that someone was going to get hurt. He sprinted, running as fast as he can, he pushed through the group and planted himself in front of Dean. The group was harsh and they didn't care that Sam was the leader of the camp, they hadn't been there long enough to respect anything but their own well being and emotions.

A fight broke out, and Sam did his best to make sure that no one touched his brother. Well timed moves landed two of the men on the ground, and then Sam took a beating. Sam didn't remember too much after it all, the minutes had ticked by and he had been overwhelmed. His vision blurred and pain filled him, eventually loud voices approached and the hits stopped. He couldn't remember when he passed out or what happened, but the one thing he did remember was that not one finger was laid on his brother.

* * *

There were voices and hands and Sam strangely enough thought that he could hear Dean's voice. Not often, but once in a while it was there. When he finally woke up, he blinked his eyes open to see Dean sitting by his bedside, watching him intensely.

"Dean?" He tried to say, but it came out choked by his dry throat.

Dean just looked at him owlishly. Sam was tired and his mind wasn't quite working right and somehow being hurt and seeing Dean next to him made him think that it was just a hunt gone wrong back when they lived in the Impala and motel rooms. He reached a hand out, grasping for his brother's comfort. Dean leaned away though, face blank and Sam felt something break because he still couldn't pull his brother out of the depths in which they found him. Once again, he wasn't good enough and fell short.

Sam fell back into feverish sleep. It swelled up and down, the heat. It surrounded him, and then left him, abandoned to the terrible cold. Hands were tearing at him and tearing and tearing and all Sam could do was beg Dean to save him, to pull him back up. He screamed sometimes, or at least he thought he did. Maybe he was crying out voicelessly. He called for Dean, but no one answered.

Sam woke up again, feeling so worn down that he was a whittled bone who had lost its marrow, left hollow and brittle. There was a hand in his this time, warm and if not perfectly firm, steady and there.

Sam blinked his eyes open and saw Dean there, green eyes flickering with something Sam hadn't seen in long time.

"Dean?" He said hoarsely.

Dean gave a tiny smile.

"Sammy."


End file.
